


Speed Dial

by strawberry_morty



Series: Rick/Morty Shenanigans [3]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-07 11:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18872203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_morty/pseuds/strawberry_morty
Summary: The thing is, Rick doesn’t use his phone. It’s this fancy, sleek little thing that Rick keeps tucked inside one of his lab coat pockets, but more as an accessory than as a practical tool.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! This is a small fic I've had in mind for a while. Also thought I'd experiment in some new writing styles *cough smut cough* before working on my other wip. Hope you enjoy!

The thing is, Rick doesn’t use his phone.

It’s this fancy, sleek little thing that Rick keeps tucked inside one of his lab coat pockets, but more as an accessory than as a practical tool.

There are few people that Rick actively talks to, and Morty can say from first-hand experience he’s more likely to portal over than send a text. He doesn’t use it for photos, or social media, or Googling random shit like Morty does. In fact, the only time Morty’s seen him turn it on was on an especially slow day for interdimensional cable (Summer was picking channels), and he got up to an astounding 4 points in Crossy Road before getting bored and pocketing his phone once more.

Morty’s pretty sure the only reason he made it was to prove how superior his design would be compared to the average smartphone. And it was, in every way, but Rick never seemed to use any of the features he implanted, from the multi-universal service to its 5 terabyte storage.

Which is why it was highly suspicious when Rick began to use it in earnest.

Not to say he was glued to the screen like Summer but—it was there. Rick would sneak glances down at it in his lap while at the dinner table, pull it out and give half-minded checks to the screen every so often as if glancing for notifications, and when confronted with something particularly irritating, often one of Jerry’s rants during ‘family time’, he would rub his temple with one hand and hold his phone in the other, staring down at the screen as if it offered some refuge against the annoyance at present.

Morty would have accepted it as nothing, if Rick hadn’t tried to hide it.

It’s a lazy Saturday, and they’re lounging on the couch together, the TV more of a background noise than a focus. Morty is rambling on about his newest favourite band while Rick sits beside him, eyes fixed on the TV as if Morty wasn’t even there.

From anyone else, Morty would know it was a cue that they weren’t listening, but it was Rick, and if he really didn’t want to listen, he would shut Morty up with a cutting remark.

He looks over. Rick has taken out his phone and is looking down at the screen—not smiling, but with his eyes crinkling ever so slightly, the corner of his lip twitching the smallest bit.

Morty tries to lean over and take a peek, but Rick shuts it off and flips it face down, a rehearsed boredom overtaking his features.

“Can I see?”

Sighing, Rick hands over the phone with a long eyeroll to show what a burden Morty is. Taking the phone with both hands, Morty swipes at the screen and frowns when it stays dark.

“It’s not working,” He tells Rick, who groans loudly.

“Obviously. It only responds to me.”

“Oh,” Morty says, not concealing the disappointment in his voice—a well-used tactic that works with about a fifty-fifty success rate, and with Rick in such a good mood today, his chances are looking good.

Rick rolls his eyes, holds out a hand. Morty hands it back expectantly, then pouts when Rick tucks it away in his lab coat. “Why can’t I see?”

“’Cause you’re a piece of shit,” Rick answers, before picking up the remote and ending the conversation by turning up the TV volume.

~

So that was an obvious cue to drop it—and maybe he should. Maybe it was just something harmless and stupid and Morty’s the idiot as always.

But he couldn’t help it. The curiosity grows every time he sees it in Rick’s hands, and finally, Morty resolves to set himself the petty, redundant goal of uncovering the mystery of Rick’s phone.

It might be an invasion of privacy—but since when has Rick ever respected _his_ privacy? And seeing how well Rick knows him, it’s his fault that Morty became intrigued. As the smartest man in the universe, he should _know_ that trying to hide something will only kindle Morty’s interest even more.

Rick rarely bothers to hide things—less so, now that they’ve become… closer. He certainly won’t advertise anything, but in the case of an unfortunate discovery, he’ll usually throw out a blunt, half-assed explanation, and if possible, emphasise Morty’s equal involvement and therefore his shared guilt.

If Rick doesn’t hide the nitty gritty, then it must be something _embarrassing_.

And even if Morty’s scarred for life by whatever he finds—if Rick looks at weird porn or has cringy college photos or whatever—as the ridiculous buzz of adrenaline fills his veins, Morty realizes he really, _really_ wants to see what Rick is hiding.

It’s a simple objective, so Morty reverts back to a classic, well-used plan.

Bitching about it until Rick gives in.

Although one of Morty’s more dangerous strategies, it’s also efficient. Rick has zero patience and a complete disregard for common decency.

He will always choose to shut down an annoyance as fast as possible over tolerating it in silent irritation. He may snap at Morty the first few times, but once he realizes Morty won’t drop it, he’ll save himself a headache and do whatever Morty asks, just to have him shut the hell up.

Morty usually doesn’t get a chance to use this one, as most of his complaints are usually drowned out by gun fire and angry aliens yelling death threats—but this is a trivial mission, and Morty has the luxury of conducting it in the safety of their home. He won’t have to worry about brutal mutilation or an untimely death as a consequence of breaking Rick’s concentration.

And so for the rest of the week, every time he sees Rick pulls out his phone, he asks what Rick is looking at—words only lightly tinged with idle curiosity, as if he hasn’t asked a hundred times already. He blinks with wide-eyed ignorance in response to Rick’s increasing aggravation, trails behind Rick and prattles on with faux-innocence— _gee, Rick, I wonder what must be on that phone of yours, must be something pretty cool_ —

Rick snaps at him, barks out insults and gives him the cold shoulder as they sit beside each other on the couch, yells at him for distracting him while driving—as he lounges back and rests his feet on the steering wheel—when Morty badgers him in the confines of the ship.

But despite the endless steam of irritation that Morty provides, Rick won’t break.

Although Rick’s insults become more and more targeting, his temper flashing even hotter, the phone stays neatly tucked away in its pocket. But here’s the thing—after all the time he’s known Rick, he knows the man is all bark, no bite. Okay, maybe there’s a lot of bite too, but Morty is used to it.

So he doesn’t take the poisoned barbs thrown his way to any injury. It only fuels his desire even more, and Morty can’t help the bubbling frustration every time Rick deflects his demands.

No matter. After three days of fruitless efforts, Morty enters phase two of his plan.

Playing the martyr.

“W-What—Do you not trust me, Rick?” He asks, injecting as much hurt into his voice as he can manage. “I-I-I’m always there for you—I’m the one you always count on, and, y-y-you just walk all over me! You never include me unless you need a human shield, or an extra set of hands, or a _bed warmer_ —”

“For the love of god, shut your mouth,” Rick groans, pressings his hands to his eyes as if dealing with a severe migraine. Morty has to duck his head so Rick won’t see the humorous smile and call his bluff.

Anyone who spends five minutes in a room with his grandfather and his dad will be highly knowledgeable in the simple fact: Rick can’t _stand_ the _poor me_ act. It grates on his nerves, like a hissing cat after being sprayed with water.

“Why—I don’t get why I can’t be a part of this! After all I’ve done for you, all the pain I endure—” Morty ends the sentence with a choked off whimper, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like snickering, as Rick slams his head against the desk with a resounding _clunk_.

“Go, _now_ , or I will shove a gun up your ass and pull the trigger.”

“The endless abuse!” Morty cries, even as he runs for the door, distantly hearing Rick fumble for his gun behind him. He slams the door closed just in time to hear the bullet hit the other side.

His smirk widens. He turns, sends a guileless glance at his mom—who watches with raised eyebrows from the other side of the kitchen counter, holding a potato in one hand and a peeler in the other—and makes his way upstairs with a skip in his step.

Soon.

Victory is guaranteed! Rick would never admit it, but he enjoyed Morty’s company—so long as he wasn’t being a pain in the ass. There was only so long he could say no when Morty was ruining their time together with endless rants about neglect and imbalance in their relationship.

He lazes around in his room for the rest of the afternoon, mindlessly scrolling through websites and playing videogames, his blood singing—Rick, the most feared, renowned man in the entire universe, and his grandson had him wrapped around his finger. Morty may not be the smartest, far from it, but he knew how to poke Rick’s buttons to get what he wanted. This minor victory only further proved it.

When his mom calls him down for dinner, he comes down the stairs and sees Rick already sitting, a dark cloud over his head as he plays with his fork. Morty represses the triumphant smile, sits down beside him without a word.

The victory freezes in his veins, however, when half-way through the meal, Rick breaks the silence of the dinner table with the mild words, “So, can I have my phone back?”

Morty pauses, meatloaf halfway in his mouth. Puts his fork down. “What?”

“Can I have my phone back,” Rick repeats, staring at him flatly—but Morty knows him, recognizes the light of wicked humor in his eyes. He’s planning something—

“I—I don’t have it,” Morty says, warily. His stomach drops when Rick’s shark smile only widens—

Rick has set a trap, and Morty has already slipped up in this dangerous game against a master of words, of manipulating, turning the tides in his favour with a mere voice—

“Drop the act, buddy,” Rick says, voice serious and full of so, _so_ much bullshit. “Come on, grandpa’s got some important stuff on there.”

“Dad?” Beth asks, and Morty realises the entire family has lifted their heads up from their plates to watch. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, sweetie—Morty just took something of mine, and I’d like it back,” Rick says.

“Morty,” Beth turns to look at him with disapproval—slight, still not fully convinced—

“At first I thought I’d misplaced it—I mean, I trust the little guy. I never thought he’d _steal_ from me,” Rick muses, a hint of betrayal coating his tone, and Morty can practically see the seed of suspicion get planted in Beth’s ear, the cogs in her brain turning any which way Rick pleases—

Oh no.

Rick is fighting back, and he’s using _his_ best tactic.

Getting the family involved.

Since its first use, it’s been the win all, end all, for any domestic disagreement between them.

If Rick is ever angry at him, all he has to do is casually throw out at the dinner table— _so Morty, you didn’t do so well on that test, maybe you should be focusing on school_ —and just like that, Morty won’t see Rick until he’s cooled off enough to end the silent treatment with a contradicting— _Beth, these adventures are what’s teaching Morty, not sitting in his room doing homework for six hours_ —

Appealing to the audience: when up against Rick, he’ll never win.

Jerry will blindly choose Morty’s side—a touching sentiment—but that means when Rick targets him, his defense is usually so nonsensical that it only makes Morty’s case worse. Beth will always choose Rick’s side, swayed easily by his leading words, and as the alpha parent, it’s an automatic loss. Summer is a wild card, but even if she sides with Morty, she won’t stand up for him unless she’s at stake too, which is very rarely.

In short, he’s screwed.

“Well, Morty?” Rick asks, equal parts expectant and smug.

He meets his mom’s accusing gaze with growing dread. “I don’t have it! I swear!”

A hand grabs his thigh. Morty jolts, catches Rick’s mischievous grin. Looks down and sees him slide the phone out from inside the sleeve of his lab coat.

“Y-You—” Morty gapes—Rick pulls away, holds up the phone in his hand.

“Got it,” Rick hums, and pockets it once more.

“But—you can’t actually believe, he didn’t—” Morty fumbles, eyes darting to his dad and sister for support and receiving nothing in return. Surely—it was under the table, giving the illusion he had pulled it from Morty’s pocket, but it was _sloppy_. Rick hadn’t bothered to put any of his usual finesse into the slight of hand, someone _had_ to have noticed—

Did they really think Morty was so stupid to carry a supposed stolen phone in his pocket? Sighing, Morty realises the answer is a cold and resolute _yes_.

Beth’s glare deepens. “Morty, why would you steal for your grandfather?”

“I didn’t,” Morty insists, futilely. Rick coughs beside him, and Morty sends him a glare when he sees the edge of a smile behind his hand.

It’s a power play. Showing how little effort it takes to get one over Morty, barely lifting a finger and using a half-assed plan. It was more than turning the tables. It was jumping up and doing a fucking dance on top.

“Well, you got it back,” Jerry starts, and Morty cringes internally. Please, no—“No harm done, right?”

“I respectfully disagree, Jerry,” Rick says, and shit, he really must be going all out if he’s even appealing to Morty’s _dad_. “This kind of behaviour—Beth, I know you’re the sweetest thing around, but sometimes you gotta put your foot down.”

“That’s right. _Morty_ ,” She starts, and he slumps down, resigned. “You’re grounded until Monday. And, you’re taking over Summer’s dish duty for the rest of the week.”

“Rest of the _month_ seems more fitting,” Rick suggests, innocently, as Summer fist pumps in Morty’s peripheral vision.

“Rest of the month, then,” his mom agrees. Morty slumps down in his chair with a pout. He’d been so _close_.

Rick stands, walks over to Beth. Squeezes her shoulders and sends her a warm smile. “That’s my girl.”

Then he swaggers out, heading down the hall for the garage. Before he turns the corner, he glances back and smirks victoriously at Morty—a look that Morty returns with a dark, promising glare.

He’ll have to up his game.

~

So his plan had failed—but he isn’t deterred. If this secret phone is truly so important that Rick would choose to instigate war over just showing him, then war there shall be.

Besides, Rick’s little sabotage has given him an idea.

Slowly, carefully, he turns the knob. Creaks open the door and peers inside cautiously. Rick is sprawled over his bed, on his back with limbs hanging off the side.

Morty grins. Pushes the door open and sneaks inside.

He and Rick spent the evening watching interdimensional cable. A comfortable, familiar routine that they slip into with ease. Every so often, Rick would ask for him to bring a beer from the fridge—usually, Morty would whine, counter with a snide remark to get it himself, perhaps an insult to his age, and if they’re alone, a comment about how it would affect his _performance_.

That night, instead of his usual habit, Morty complied with a smile—still rolling his eyes in exasperation, to keep up the pretense—but brought Rick drink after drink without complaint. And on the fifth one, while Rick relaxed on the couch, guard down, Morty slipped in a drop of Harxitisium.

Rick gave him the drug on an adventure, his task to infiltrate a gala as a waiter and dose the drink of a target. Rick never asked for him to return the vial, but he hadn’t wanted to throw it away in case the man got angry at him later.

It was an untraceable drug, no taste, no odour. Long-acting—and fortunately, Rick hasn’t slept in a couple days. He wouldn’t suspect anything of the slow drowsiness overtaking him as the night went on.

He worried for a bit that one drop wouldn’t be enough—it’s how much he used the first time, but Rick’s tolerance bordered on godly. But he doesn’t know fully how the drug works and _also_ doesn’t want to explain to his mom that he killed Rick with an overdose, so one drop it is.

Then, with a teasing smile and peck on the cheek, Morty went off to bed—Rick split off to his own room, and now he sleeps in a comfortable, drug-induced slumber.

Morty tip toes over and slowly leans over Rick’s form, sliding his hand inside Rick’s coat. He stills feels on edge, knowing that without the drug, Rick was a light-sleeper—and a violent one, too. Morty’s lost count of the amount of times he’s tried to wake the scientist up, only to get flipped over with a gun to the throat, Rick staring down at him with dark, wild eyes. It’s… kind of hot too.

Rick doesn’t stir, and Morty heaves out a relieved breath. After so long stewing over it, he’s memorised the pocket’s location, and he finds the cellphone with ease.

Slipping it out smoothly, he stands back up and tosses it around in his hands with a gleeful smile. Job already half done.

Now he just needs Rick’s fingerprint.

He gently grabs Rick’s hand and flips it over. He’s about to press Rick’s thumb to the screen—when from below him, comes the drowsy mumble of, “Morty?”

He freezes. Damn Rick’s substance abuse and consequential iron-clad tolerance. He swiftly hides the phone in the pocket of his pajama pants and climbs into the bed. “Hey.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rick says, still half-asleep. He pulls Morty closer anyway.

Morty snuggles up to him, tucks his head into the crook of Rick’s neck as his heart pounds. “I—I missed you.”

Rick hums, smiles against his hairline. Morty settles in—discouraged he couldn’t go through with his plan, but this was a pretty good consolation prize. Rick isn’t really a cuddler.

He shuffles closer, then freezes.

The phone, through the thin cotton of his pajamas, presses into Rick’s hip.

Morty quickly pulls away, but he can tell by the minute tensing in Rick’s grip on him that the scientist has already noticed.

Rick looks down at him, knowingly asks, “ _Missed_ _me_ , huh?”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Morty stutters, sitting up. Crap, if Rick has already gotten him in trouble for fake stealing, what would he do about real stealing?

In the dark, he sees Rick sits up as well, a dark silhouette in the sparse light from the window. Sighing, he pulls the phone out of his pocket and holds it out, just slightly, as if hiding it will soften the consequences. “I just, I just wanted—”

Rick’s hands grip his hips. He chokes as Rick crawls on top of him, slowly pushing him down. The phone falls from his hand, limp, and gets lost in the sheets.

“You fucking teenager,” Rick says fondly, before dipping his head down to press wet kisses along Morty’s neck.

Morty’s excuses dissolve into a confused moan, his hands darting up to card through Rick’s hair. He almost pushes Rick away, to clarify the misunderstanding and own up to the truth—before realising that he’s just been handed the _perfect_ scapegoat on a silver platter.

He tugs at Rick’s hair harder, and pulls him into a deep kiss. Rick groans against his mouth and the sound makes his toes curl—the fake boner swiftly becoming replaced with authentic heat building in his gut.

“Rick—” Morty murmurs against his lips. “ _Rick_.”

Morty pulls away and paws at his shoulders until he pulls back to shrug off his shirt—his long fingers tug at Morty’s buttons, pulling off his own, before coming back down to press flush against him, and Morty can’t help but moan low in his throat at the touch of Rick’s warm skin.

He slides his hands up Rick’s back, scratches lightly along the bare skin and smirks when he feels Rick shiver against him. The smirk turns to a hitch of breath, a small whine, when the scientist beings to thumb at his nipples, chuckling against his ear.

“Adorable,” Rick coos, and his patronising tone makes Morty’s cheeks flush even darker.

Then he hikes up Morty’s legs, and leans down to mouth along Morty’s chest, slowly inching his way down. He stops at Morty’s hardness, pressing one wet, hot kiss against the fabric as Morty claws his hands into the sheets.

Pulling back slightly, Rick nuzzles into his thigh, peppers the soft inner-side with open mouthed kisses through thin material, causing shudders to run through his spine.

Two fingers tap lightly at his hip. “Come on, baby.”

He shuts his eyes tight, raises his hips and feels Rick’s fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, curl in deeper and catch his boxers too, sliding them off slowly and diving down, kissing along Morty’s hipbone, following the trail of exposed skin as it uncovers.

“ _Ah_ —” Morty tosses his head back, biting on his lip. A low moan escapes anyway, and Rick seems to feed off the sound, taking in more of his length with a satisfied groan that makes him moan even louder.

”Oh god, oh god—Rick—” He claws at the bed with new desperation as Rick swallows around his cock.

Rick moans, tongues the base of his cock and sucks at the tip, his warm tongue making Morty’s eyes roll back, his mind blanking. Rick runs the flat of his teeth along his shaft, making him tremble and writhe.

He scratches at the sheets so harshly his nails start to tingle with static, the muscles in his core spasming as Rick licks and kisses along his arousal, a warm hand jerking him at the base—

And when Morty looks down, he meets Rick’s piercing gaze, his eyes intense, cataloguing even twitch and shiver of Morty’s body—he shuts his eyes, that gaze still burning into his skin like fire, flooding him with warmth.

“Rick, I’m gonna—” He whines, clenches his thighs around Rick’s head, pushes his hips forward desperately. “I’m—Rick, can I—"

Rick pulls back, panting and lips flushed. The light in his eyes becomes predatory.

“Choose.”

Morty tenses. Pulls through the pleasure-filled haze, looks down and sees Rick holding the phone in his free hand, idly studying the smooth screen reflecting the sparse light.

“W—What?”

Rick suddenly wraps his fingers around the base of Morty’s cock, tighten his grip until Morty whines at the restriction.

“You can have the phone,” Rick elaborates, grin wicked. “Or you can come.”

Rick tongues the end of his length again—the aching heat returns full force, his back arching, he slaps the back of his hand over his mouth to supress the scream in his throat. Morty writhes, babbles nonsensically underneath him, but Rick’s grip on the base of his cock stays tight, leaving a scorching buzz tight in his groin.

“Rick—please, _please_ just let me—”

Rick hums, looking up at him with dark eyes. “No, that seems a little too easy.”

Morty’s eyes widen, dread and sensual heat pooling in his gut as Rick muses, lips pressed against his thigh, “You can have me anytime. The _phone_ —that’s something shiny and new, isn’t it? How ‘bout this—if you choose the phone, you can’t come for a _week_.”

Rick gives a long, languid lick up his shaft, watching with sadistic pleasure as Morty keens, thrashes in his grip and fighting Rick’s unbreakable hold on his thighs. “And I’m not blue-balling myself, so promise you, I _will_ fuck you through it.”

Morty whines—and even as frustrated tears prickle at his eyes, his cock pulses with new urgency at the thought of Rick bending him over and fucking him while Morty begs for him to stop, taking his own pleasure while Morty screams and cries underneath him with a cock ring tight around his length, or god forbid, a _cage_ —he throws his head back, whines again.

Rick latches onto the sound with a predatory grin of teeth, his nails digging into the flesh of Morty’s thighs, and echoes, “Rest of the _month_ , perhaps?”

“No—” Morty chokes out—Rick’s fingers loosen, starts to teasingly run along his erection, sending electric jolts through his body, leaving him a shuddering, desperate mess—he’s getting too sensitive, he’s been dangling on the edge for too long—

But _god_ —He _really wants_ that phone. And if Rick is going to these lengths to hide it—the raised stakes of the bargain can only entail a high price. It must be something _good_ hidden on there—

“Having trouble deciding?” He murmurs against Morty’s cock. The vibrations make him choke, dig his hands into the mattress with increasing fervour. “Let me help.”

Rick pulls back, flips him onto his stomach as he squeaks. “Wait—what are you—” Rick pulls him up by the hips, until Morty’s ass is in the air, his aching want hanging in plain view and half of his face planted against the sheets.

Morty tries to push himself up, but Rick grips his hair and slams him back down, locking his grip tight on Morty’s scalp. He starts to grind into Morty’s bare skin, the course material of his pants dragging—the friction makes Morty drop limp into the sheets, trembling, face flaming as he hears Rick groan from behind him.

It’s Morty’s favourite position for a rough fuck—and as Rick leans down to nibble at his ear, lips curled into a Cheshire smile, he knows the change is far from accidental.

“ _Baby_ ,” Rick croons, his breath hot against his ear. Morty whimpers.

It’s not _fair_. Rick is targeting all his sweet spots—and that pet name, fuck, how is he supposed to—

A lubed finger probes at his entrance. Morty’s eyes widen, barely having time to register the sensation before Rick shoves two in deep, immediately curling in search for his prostate.

“No—Rick—” Morty chokes out. Despite his protests, he can’t help but push back on those long fingers with a moan, even though he knows it will only make it harder to win.

“Better choose fast,” Rick teases, a hand reaching down to tug at Morty’s hard length. “It would suck to be left high and dry right now, wouldn’t it?”

“I—” Morty shudders, grits his teeth through the blinding pleasure. “I—”

Rick rubs on his prostate insistently, thumbs the head of his cock until he can’t do anything but thrash, biting into the sheets and sobbing.

“Ah—” Morty struggles in Rick’s hold, eyes watering as the pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming. “Rick, _please_ , I—I _can’t_ —”

Rick groans, rough and gravelly in a way that makes Morty want to scream. His hands pause, pull away, and Morty slumps against the bed, chest heaving, half-way between grateful for the halt and aching for more.

“Baby,” He says, voice husky. “Say you want me.”

Morty squeezes his eyes tight, a resigned breath leaving his lips. “I want you,” he croaks out.

Rick ducks his head and tongues at his hole, making Morty hoarsely cry out. His hand fists Morty’s cock hard and fast, the traces of lube still on his fingers cause a smooth glide that makes Morty’s head spin.

“Yes, yes, more Rick—” He claws at the sheets harder, vision blinded with the intensity as Rick sucks and tongues at his entrance, jerking him off faster—“God, Rick, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

He throws his head back and screams, wrecked and hoarse. Rick doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down until he’s spent, before easing his touch away, and Morty is left dazed against the sheets, eyes shut and mind deliriously blank.

He basks in the afterglow as Rick turns him onto his back, cleans off his come with gentle laps of his tongue, causing Morty to whimper, fatigued. The soreness slowly seeps into his body, red marks and scratches that hum pleasantly on his skin. Distantly, he remembers to be thankful Rick soundproofed his room.

Eventually, Rick joins him, tugs the blankets from underneath him as he drowsily shuffles over. Rick lets him nuzzle into his side, pulls the blankets over them. His hand winds through Morty’s hair and begins to absently card through, gentle strokes that make Morty hum in contentment.

He's just about to drift off to sleep when he remembers the massive, colossal loss in this game, Rick once more victorious—

That fucking phone.

“You sack of shit,” Morty breathes, exhausted.

Rick chuckles, kisses him lightly on the side of his head. “It’s cute how you honestly thought some Harxitisium would be enough to get one over me.”

“What’s on your phone,” Morty demands in a sluggish mumble.

Snorting, Rick says, “You just got yourself a pampered, no pay-back orgasm. Count your winnings.”

Just before he falls asleep, Morty has enough energy to make one last vow to himself.

He’s getting inside that fucking phone if it’s the last thing he does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the second chapter was originally meant to be the last, but I'm having a lot of fun with this story! I'm adding a little bit more so I can play around. :) Hope you enjoy!

Rick – 2. Morty – 0.

The following days are full of petty fights and vicious plays, in a way that reminds Morty of the time he played Extreme Uno with Rick and his grandfather had six _pick-up 8_ cards. Morty had five. Fucker.

Morty tries to snatch the phone while Rick is in the shower, only to get bent over the sink and fucked silly. Morty tries to distract Rick with his mom’s cookies, and ends up having crushed euqin pills—the most beefed-up alien aphrodisiac out there—slipped into his spaghetti during family dinner time. He tries to slip the phone out of Rick’s pant pocket during movie night and somehow ends up choking on Rick’s dick _and_ missing the plot twist about Joe Schmoe’s true bloodline.

After two weeks of their game, Morty’s mood has devolved from mildly annoyed to fucking _done_. If Rick’s going to fight dirty, then so will he.

There’s a big flaw that always leads to his demise. Okay, there’s two—but after the first fiasco where he almost lost sex privileges for a _month_ , he can’t be blamed for getting distracted whenever Rick wants to put out.

The first flaw is that Rick is _always_ in control. Nothing gets past him. If he wants something, nothing will compromise him.

So Morty will need to make him lose control.

He’s never used this method before—it’s… not really his style.

But evidently, it is very much _Rick’s_ , because it’s one of his go-to tactics for coercing Morty to waltz into a flaming pile of shit and vomit. He means it metaphorically, but he’s sure it would work literally as well. Because it _does_ work. _Every time_.

The Seduction.

It’s a newly-developed tactic, correlating with the start of their new dynamic, and Morty has yet to find either the correct counter or the simple willpower to win against it. It’s a _very_ liberally-used trump card that Rick can pull out of the deck every time without fail. _Morty, I’ll blow you if you steal that gem. Morty, you can fuck me if you skip your final exam. Morty, if you choose the phone, you don’t get to come._

Morty’s a hormonal teenager, so he can’t be blamed that it’s worked every time. Rolled-up sleeves and an unbuttoned collar—all Rick has to do is flash a little skin and turn on the charm for Morty to melt into a malleable, willing lapdog.

However, Rick is a massive horn dog. It’s not surprising, considering his blatant sexuality, that it’s one of his more visible weaknesses—one that Morty is ready to exploit.

It’s perfect. When they first started out, Morty was beyond skittish—never touching Rick more than invited to, only indulging Rick’s kinks with bashful reluctance. If Rick didn’t push him, he’s confident they’d be stuck in a mundane, vanilla sex life where any position other than missionary was considered kinky.

Which is why Rick would never expect Morty to turn around and use his own strategy against him. Even a little dirty talk would probably throw Rick off his game, considering Morty’s never done anything of that territory, not without being shamelessly prompted by Rick in the heat of the moment.

Well, it _would_ be perfect, if there wasn’t one glaring, obvious problem.

Morty has never tried to seduce Rick before.

He’s never needed to. Rick knows him inside out, knows his moods, his wants—and is well aware of Morty’s shyness. In that aspect, Rick is rather sweet, always indulging Morty first instead of forcing him to blunder his way through a proposition. It almost makes up for what an asshole he is in every other moment.

Morty has never had to—to _flirt_. A good thing too, because he sucks at it.

It’s just—Rick is so experienced, and smooth, and _attractive_. Yes, he’s also a dysfunctional, alcoholic douchebag, but in pure sex appeal, it’s no secret Morty’s scored way out of his league. And Morty’s tried. He’s tried the flirtatious banter and the teasing words—but with that confident demeanor, those piercing eyes and that _smirk_ he gets whenever Morty tries to come onto him. How is he not supposed to get flustered when—

Nope. Those thoughts stop today.

Morty’s going to strip away his insecurities. He’s going to strut, and tease, until Rick is _drooling_ after him. After all, Rick isn’t the only one who’s been paying attention. Morty knows what makes him tick, and he’s going to use it without remorse.

First, he needs some things—and to get those things, he needs to make an alliance.

He knocks for a full minute before the door swings open, Summer frowning in annoyance on the other side. “Jesus—what do you want?”

“Help me or I’ll tell mom you’re the one who stole the two hundred dollars.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Like she’ll believe your word over mine.”

“I kept the receipt for your purse.” Morty holds up his phone, showing the photo of his slightly crumpled hostage—contrary to popular belief, he isn’t stupid enough to bring his one shred of leverage anywhere near Summer’s grasp.

Her eyes widen. Her arm latches out and yanks him through into her room, the door slamming shut behind. “I am _never_ taking you shopping again.”

She grips him by the elbow, pushes him until he stumbles against the edge of her bed. He rubs the spot tenderly and she puts her hands on her hips.

“Now what do you want?”

He pulls out the wad of cash from his pocket. “I—I need you to get some stuff for me. Discreetly.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re not gonna ask me to buy your porn mags, right?”

“Uh,” Morty says, eloquently.

“Fine,” She sighs, holding out her hand. “What do you need?”

He hands over the cash, then holds out the crumpled scrap of paper in his other hand. Summer snatches it and scans through it with a huff, before pausing.

“This,” She starts, confused. “Highlighter? _Waxing sheets?”_

“If you—If you let me borrow your makeup, you can pocket whatever money you save,” He bargains. “And if you do it for me.”

She pulls away, a disgusted look on her face. “I’m _not_ helping you wax down there.”

“ _The_ _makeup_!” He corrects hastily, face tomato red.

“Okay, okay, you got a deal,” She rolls her eyes, before staring down at the list again, curiously. “I mean, I never expected you’d be into this kind of stuff, but it’s not that weird.”

“Other side,” he mumbles.

She flips the paper over. Drops the sheet like it’s on fire. “Yeah, _ew_. We’re even after this, got it? No more favours.”

“Thanks,” He grins, excitement bubbling up in his chest.

“Get out now,” She points out the door. Morty complies with a wave, goes into his own room and flops down on his bed.

A giddy smile forces itself onto his face. This must be why Rick loves to scheme—the rush that comes, knowing that you’re one step ahead and they’ll never see what’s coming. It’s addictive, and it makes Morty even more determined to succeed.

Rick won’t know what hit him.

~

If anything, he admires Summer’s promptness—or perhaps it’s just a high demand for cash, he realises, as she shuffles through the bills with a satisfied smile.

“So, who is it anyway?”

He freezes, turns around, arms hanging at his side holding the two shopping bags. “Huh?”

“You’re trying to get laid, right?” She observes distractedly, fanning the bills out in her hands. “I never see you talk to anyone at school. On the days you actually _come_ to school.”

“Uh—uh—"

She pauses, looks at him speculatively. “Jessica? No, has to be a guy for the waxing. If you’re going through this much trouble for his attention, must be someone who likes to play it cool all the time. Can’t be from an adventure, Rick wouldn’t let that happen in a million years.”

Her scrutinizing gaze narrows even more. Morty feels himself sweat as if the gaze were slowly boiling him. “Thanks for the stuff,” He blurts out, before dashing into his room. He kicks the door shut behind him, throws the bags onto his bed.

“Don’t think you can avoid me!” He hears outside. “I still have to do your makeup.”

He winces. Right.

He’ll have to come up with some kind of alibi, because Morty doesn’t think he can handle an hour-long makeover as Summer investigates every clue he’s unknowingly dropped, all of them pointing to the fact that he’s trying to get shafted by their grandfather.

That’s a problem for later, however.

He opens up the bags, the crinkle of the plastic sounding far louder than it should in the quiet of his room. Feels his face simmer hot as he pulls out objects ranging from moderately innocent to downright filthy.

He spreads them out on his bed, studies them with a whoosh of breath.

He’s planning to make his move this Friday—their unofficial, but totally official date night. Rick usually takes him off planet so they don’t have to worry about getting caught—and he’ll have to be sneaky so Rick doesn’t know something’s up.

He’s not sure if he should even bother, actually, because Rick seems to have reached the conclusion that Morty’s turned tail in defeat. He flaunts the phone around in plain view, tauntingly flips it in the air, confident Morty will never discover its secret. _Fucking fucker_.

He'll start with the waxing sheets.

He fumbles with the packet, off-put by the pastel, flowery design as he tears it open, and begins to read the instructions.

This idea, of which Morty is now having numerous doubts, was inspired by a vacation Rick took him on at the same resort where they found that detox machine. It was dutifully avoided this time around.

Rick got them some kind of couple’s deal—a _honeymoon_ _package_ , Morty remembers with a blush. All activities were done together, until one night Rick left for the bar and shooed him off with two aliens, watching him get dragged away with a devious grin on his face.

Turns out, Rick had signed him up for some kind of—Morty turns red again just remembering it. The aliens had yanked off his robe and rubbed him in smooth gel _,_ while he received hand and foot massages from other workers. That might have been to restrain him, actually. In his defense, they were rubbing the gel _everywhere_.

He'd sat and sulked in his discomfort for ten minutes—just waiting for Rick to walk in so he could yell at him about the creepy treatment he had to go through. The sullenness changed to wonder when they laid him in a hot bath, and the gel slowly washed off to leave soft, _hairless_ skin. It worked miracles for his acne too.

That night, Rick rubbed along his naked skin with a satisfied groan, not an ounce of shame as he nuzzled his stubbled cheek against smooth thighs and Morty, still left bare and sensitive from the treatment, could only shiver underneath his touch.

When the hair began to grow again two months later, Morty had even felt self-conscious about it—until Rick had caught on and eased the worries by rolling him over and kissing along his skin once again, mumbling into his neck and scolding him for thinking too much.

Unfortunately, Morty can’t ask Rick for them to return and find some of that fancy gel, because this needs to be a covert operation. He’ll have to do it with Earth’s primitive technologies. Summer kindly got him some kind of fancy razor set, but advised he use the waxing sheets for _down there—_ Morty winces. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.

His eyes run over the rest of his bounty, mentally assessing his plan. Summer would help him with the makeup. He’ll do the waxing today, and—

Morty flushes, looking down at the pile he’d pointedly put as far away from him as possible, out of some form of bashfulness that he’d probably need to get rid of.

He’ll worry about that stuff later. For now, he reads through the bright pink instructions, and darkly thinks that Rick better appreciate it.

“I’m going to school tomorrow,” Morty announces at dinner that night. Summer smirks knowingly. His mom raises a doubtful eyebrow. His dad blabbers on about… something.

Beside him, Rick does nothing more than pull out his phone.

It’s tilted away ever so slightly, at the perfect angle to hide the screen from Morty’s gaze. Morty’s eyes dart between the hidden images and Rick’s small, knowing grin, and wonders if cybernetic eyes could be punctured with dinner forks.

~

“Hey, get up.”

Morty squints up at her. Closes his eyes again. She shakes his shoulders harder.

“You little— _get up_. It’s beauty time, little brother.”

He rolls over with a pained moan, looks blearily at the clock. “It’s—it’s _5am_.”

She scoffs. “ _Poor you_. Listen up, we’ve got two hours and _a lot_ to work on before school starts. If you really want my help, wash up and meet me in my room.”

“But he doesn’t go to our—” He stops, sighs. Probably best to just keep his mouth shut and go along with it. He sits up, blinking until the fatigue wears away from his eyes. Even when Rick wasn’t here to drag him off for an early adventure, he still wasn’t allowed to sleep in. With a sigh, he gets up and stumbles his way to the bathroom.

A little more awake and hair still damp after his shower, he slowly pushes open the door to Summer’s room. Summer is already standing in front of her vanity mirror, patting a sponge around her face and angling her head side to side. “Rise and shine.”

“Hey,” He mumbles, looking around at photos and old stuffies strewn around her room. He and Summer used to be really close as kids, but now he feels like an alien intruding on her space.

He glances down at the array of supplies on the table with increasing worry. “So, what are we doing?”

“What am _I_ doing,” Summer corrects. “You’re gonna sit right here, and not move an _inch_ , until I’m done fixing you up.”

He shrugs, hopping onto Summer’s chair. At least one of them was confident.

“And while I’m doing this…” Morty tries not to cringe as Summer dabs the cold sponge along his skin. “You can tell me about your beau.”

He feels the relaxed warmth of the shower evaporate, leaving him in a cold sweat. “Aw—come on, Summer, he, w-we really don’t want anyone to know.”

Her eyes brighten. “So you’re already dating?”

“No! No, I mean—well,” Morty winces, and Summer takes the opportunity to dab the sponge closer to his eyes. Rick was going to flay him alive. Despite that thought, a silly smile takes over his face. _Dating_. He and Rick are _dating._

Summer pauses, and starts fussing at the stray hairs surrounding his face. “You really like him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Morty mumbles. “He doesn’t—he doesn’t really show it, but I know he cares a lot too. And he always pays attention to me, and takes care of me. He’s really sweet in his own way—" He cut himself off, red filling his cheeks when he realises he’s still smiling like an idiot.

Summer raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you doing all this?”

His smile turns into a sullen frown. “’Cause he’s an asshole and I hate him.”

Summer looks torn between amusement and concern, before settling on apathy. She grabs the sponge again and leans in. “Hold still.”

“W-what are you even doing?” Morty asks, shying away from Summer’s hand until his neck can’t stretch back any farther.

“Primer, concealer, foundation,” She lists off. “Then bronzer and highlighter. And some setting powder. We’ll worry about your eyes after you get dressed. By the way, your little shopping list sucked ass. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Pretty much,” he admits without shame.

Summer hums and continues to dab at his face more. Now that Morty is left to his thoughts, he finally notices the butterflies in his stomach. It’s not that he’s nervous, but—it feels weird. He’s never tried to gussy up for Rick before. He sometimes played with his hair or wore a new sweater, but nothing like this.

But the _phone_ , the miniscule part of his brain repeats with determination. Morty _needs_ that phone. It’s with that thought Morty is able to tolerate Summer’s tickling, puffy brushes and mysterious powders for the next few minutes, sitting patient and still as a statue and Summer layers on product after product.

Once he settles in, it’s not that bad. The house is strangely peaceful—he’s used to running late in the morning, or getting rushed by Rick to go somewhere in his half-asleep daze, so he’s never sat back to take in the silence. Summer has her earbuds in, but Morty can hear the faint music buzzing from them as she hums along softly.

“Okay.” Summer steps back and stares at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. “You’re done. Go get dressed.”

“Really?” He turns to try look in the mirror, but Summer grabs his head and turns it to the door.

“Nope—go get dressed first. It’ll be a surprise.”

“You didn’t—You didn’t put clown makeup on me, right?”

“ _Out._ ”

Summer shoves him until he’s stumbling into the hallway, the door slowly swinging shut behind him. He lifts a hand to touch his face, then stops himself, imagining Summer’s wrath if he ruined her work and had to walk back into her room after ten seconds to get it fixed.

He gets changed as quickly as he can before making his way to the bathroom, excitement budding in his chest. Summer passes him in the hallway, and when she looks up from her phone, her eyes go wide.

“Hey—” She stops him by the shoulder. “What the hell are you wearing?”

He looks down at himself. “My clothes?”

“Morty,” She sighs.

“These are my nice clothes,” He protests, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. It was probably the nicest thing he had. Of course, he decided that because Rick said he looked cute in it. He didn’t stop wearing it for a week, then worried Rick would get sick of it and now only wore it for special occasions.

“I _bought_ you clothes. _Nicer_ clothes.”

“Yeah…” Morty thinks back to the untouched shopping bag under his bed. “I-It’s, it’s not really me, you know.”

She glares. “Do you want to get fucked?”

Stuttering, Morty stares at her with wide eyes. When the glare deepens, he mutely nods.

She grabs him and turns him back to his bedroom door. “Then dress like it.”

She pats him on the back before slipping into the bathroom, and Morty sighs as he goes back to his room.

He asked Summer to get him some new clothes. Nothing too crazy, and subtle. As he pulls out the first of the two bags from his hiding spot, the plastic crinkling loudly through his room, he realises with flushed cheeks that he probably should have emphasised the _subtle_ part.

The first thing he unfolds is the cropped hoodie.

“Yellow isn’t subtle, Summer,” He mumbles, staring at the fabric with flushed cheeks. Maybe he wore his yellow shirt a lot, but it’s not like he has a trademark on the colour. Now, the once comforting shade glares back at him daringly. And why was it _twenty dollars?_ It looks exactly like a plain, basic hoodie with white pull strings, except the bottom half is cut off. By that logic, it should be half the price.

He sighs, but does pull off his sweater and put it on. Once it envelopes him, he grudgingly admits that it’s the softest thing he’s ever worn.

The jeans are a different story.

Morty grits his teeth as he tries to shove his legs through, hoping he doesn’t have to resort to jumping around his room until his feet finally pop out the ends. They’re rough and unforgiving, and Morty’s quite sure their grip is causing his blood vessels to constrict. He totters, finally just leaning against the wall as he struggles to inch the pants up his thighs, coming to terms with the fact that he looks ridiculous.

If anything, he’s glad that today of all days, Rick hasn’t decided to barge into his room to convince him to ditch—

“Morty!”

His eyes widen. He stumbles and hops over to the door, tripping as the pants trap his legs together. Rick manages to swing it half-open before Morty slams himself against it.

“I-I’m—I’m going to school today, Rick.” Morty calls as he plasters himself against the wood, the jeans still hanging above his knees. “Y-Y—nothing you say’s gonna change my mind, so just leave.”

“Nothing?” Rick asks lightly, and Morty braces harder for the imminent impact.

Nothing comes. If he looks down, he can see the two slim shadows of Rick’s feet from the other side of the door, but Rick does nothing but wait patiently, and Morty feels himself begin to sweat, a dreading feeling building in his chest.

The Stake-out.

Rick rarely uses this tactic, because they both know he has the patience of a four-year old. However, he also has the immature obstinance of a four-year old, and in rare cases, the two forces will balance out and leave a waiting, determined executor.

There’s been two instances of this behavioural eclipse, the first when Morty’s ice cream was about to melt and he didn’t have time for Rick’s shit, and the second when the prehistoric comet was about to wipe out the dinosaurs, Rick and Morty included, and he _really_ didn’t have time for Rick’s shit. He’s never given a blowjob so fast in his life.

If he doesn’t do something, Rick might get bored and leave. But maybe not.

“I’m gonna be late, Rick,” He says, trying not to whine. He can practically hear Rick’s grin. “Come on, it’s just one day.”

“Then it shouldn’t matter if you miss it.”

He resolutely shuts his mouth. If he argued back, Rick would stand there all day until he opened the door—which is an absolute _no-no_.

Sure, he’s doing this whole makeover for Rick, but he’s not mentally prepared for the scientist to actually _see_ him yet. He touches his face lightly and pulls his hand away. His fingers are completely clean, and Morty hadn’t expected a mirror to stare back at him, but he’d hoped to see _something_ , some sort of hint as to what he looked like right now.

Rick would like it, wouldn’t he? But Rick is so gorgeous—Morty thinks of his high cheek bones and his lazy tousle of blue hair and feels the last sliver of his self-confidence wither away. Morty’s not hot, or sexy, and even is he was, Rick wouldn’t care in the least—

His blood runs cold. What if Rick _doesn’t_ like it? What if Rick _laughs_ at him?

He can see it all happen—the first second of confusion on Rick’s face, before his lips quirk up and he dissolves into full-blown cackles and callous taunts. _Barbie. Clown. Painted hen._

And on a normal day, insults to his appearance would bounce off him with ease. Morty knew his looks were average at best, and Rick’s jokes never had harmful intentions. But today: with Morty miles out of his comfort zone, dolled up to impress and actively _trying_ to look good—he doesn’t think he could handle it.

Code red. Abort. Abandon ship.

This was a _terrible_ idea.

“Morty,” Rick coos outside, sweetly.

“You’re _still_ here?!” Morty asks, his voice shrill.

“If you skip school today, I’ll show you what’s on my phone.”

He freezes. “You’re lying. I’m not that stupid.”

“I _promise._ Here.”

Morty hears shuffling and looks down to see the familiar phone slip under the door. It’s face down, but Morty can see the light of the screen peek out against the carpet. It’s open.

He eases his weight against the door, wary, and flips the phone over with his toe.

He glimpses the screen for one second—it’s a selfie of Rick sticking is tongue out and giving the finger—and just when his concentration slips, the door bashes open with the shuddering force of an earthquake.

It almost smashes Morty flat on the ground before he grounds his feet and pushes it back into the frame, panicking even more when he realises Rick’s knocked it off its hinges. It has a hole of shrapnel in the center and a long splinter from top to bottom.

“You—you fucking liar!”

“Crossed fingers, bitch!”

Rick gives a hard shove on the other side and Morty screams when an arm sneaks through the gap and makes a wide swipe at him. This _cannot_ be happening. Rick can’t see him like this, he’d never live it down—

“Get out, get out!” Morty slams the door again and winces when he sees Rick’s arm jammed in the frame.

“What the _fuck_ Morty—”

“ _Out!”_

“ _Grandpa Rick_.”

He leans against the door and heaves a sigh of relief. Never before has he been so relieved to hear an annoyed Summer Smith.

“He’s going to school today. Stop being so clingy.”

“I’m _not_ clingy.” Morty can practically hear him straighten up, his indignant bristle.

“I mean, it’s kind of sad. Aren’t you supposed to be a world-conquering genius or something—”

“The genius who saved your life, _twenty-two times_.”

“Yeah, thanks. But seriously, you can’t start whining just because you love Morty _so_ much and you can’t handle six hours without him—”

“Jesus—I don’t care, Summer. The little baby can go to school. I’ll be in the garage.”

That was it?! That easily?

Against his back, three sharp knocks ring through the door. “You’re welcome.”

“How did you _do_ that?” Morty asks, his heart still pounding. After all his efforts—every one of Rick’s strategies catalogued and analysed in his head, every one of his counter strategies practised and refined, and all it took was a few goads from Summer to get him to back off?

“Rick either has a massive superiority complex, a massive inferiority complex, or both. In any case, it’s exploitable.” He sees a sliver of her red hair through the recently-created, gaping splinter in his door. “Now what’s taking so long?”

“I-I’m taking it all off,” Morty says as he starts to struggle the jeans back down his legs. “I can’t do this. I’m—I’m calling it.”

“Ah. Cold feet. I’ll let Rick know you’re not going to school then. Hey _, grandpa—”_

“ _Summer_ ,” he hisses through the frame.

“ _Morty_ ,” He hears sung back at him. “As your big sister, it’s my duty to help you grow a pair. So pick it up, buttercup.”

“The—the jeans don’t even fit,” Morty whines, and they both know it’s a pathetic excuse.

“Oh they’ll fit.” Summer chuckles darkly. “’Cause if you don’t get those on, you’re going to school without pants.”

Above Morty’s stammers, she cheerfully says, “Meet me in the bathroom when you’re done!”

And so, at six in the morning, Morty leans against the shattered remains of his bedroom door with pants hanging around his knees and—

The _phone_.

He drops onto his knees with wide eyes as he picks up the small device. Rick slid it under his door only to forget to snatch it back before he left—Finally, he’s slipped up in his overconfidence—

It’s—

It’s Morty’s. It’s his fucking phone.

“I fucking hate you,” Morty breathes. He’s not going to waste time wondering how Rick managed to steal it, or how Rick so easily figured out his password.

Instead, he’s going to think about how Rick even changed the _fucking case_ to resemble his own phone so that Morty would have one brief moment—one single, brief moment of hope for once in his _fucking_ life, only for it to be snatched away. He’s probably having a fucking birthday bash down in the garage, spinning around in his stupid chair and laughing at Morty’s expense.

He yanks off the jeans, slips his boxers off as he marches towards the _bag of forbidden items._

That bitch is going down.


End file.
